


follow the white trees home

by boltlightning



Category: Ghost of Tsushima (Video Game)
Genre: Epilogue, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Spoilers, Mentions of Canonical Character Death, Missing Scene, Post-Game(s), and a hug or two, let jin have some mf closure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29291109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boltlightning/pseuds/boltlightning
Summary: There is work yet to be done. The Ghost takes some time to recover.(an epilogue, in drabbles)
Relationships: Jin Sakai & Jin Sakai's Horse, Jin Sakai & Masako Adachi, Jin Sakai & Sadanobu Ishikawa, Jin Sakai & Yuna, Jin Sakai & all his friends, Norio & Jin Sakai
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	1. omi

**Author's Note:**

> howdy friends — before you read, this takes place immediately after the final final boss fight. if you haven't played past there and hit the credit roll, you should close this tab and go do that. it's very good!

Jin waits until the next morning to return to Omi Village.

He had scouted his home village before meeting with Lord Shimura under the maple tree. He trusted his uncle to act with honor — his honor is the one constant in the ever-churning storm of Jin’s life — but a fugitive under the shogun’s law could not be too careful. He knows that Lord Shimura stayed in the Sakai estate, that the groundskeeper Taichi had received him with surprise but not disbelief, and that his wounds would heal cleanly, if not quickly. The jitō, once bandaged, had announced to the village the disbandment of Clan Sakai and that they should expect a new lord to arrive by springtime.

Lord Shimura and his retainers depart the following morning, as Jin watches from the shadows of what was once Yuriko’s home. His own wounds aren’t fatal, and were easily dressed. But he notes with a pang that the retinue rides slowly, with the retainers riding abreast of their jitō rather than behind him.

 _Travel well, Uncle,_ Jin bids him, as he slips silently into the western gate of the estate.

He had split his childhood between Castle Shimura and the Sakai estate, but entering the courtyard still instills him with a sense of calm. Memories, all bittersweet with age, flood back to him, and for a moment he stands and stares at the dark facade. This may be his last time standing so close to his family’s home; he would savor what good memories he had left, and work to restore his family’s name elsewhere.

Jin clenches his hands into fists, and just as he is preparing to ascend the steps, the doors slide open.

Taichi stands with his broom in hand, and bows to his once-lord like nothing is unusual. “Young master, welcome back. I thought they’d never leave.”

“I’m surprised he left as soon as he did,” Jin says honestly. “But I’m glad to get a moment to speak with you, Taichi.”

“Likewise, Lord Sakai.”

The title stings, a sharp twist of a knife he had forgotten was still in his heart. Jin inhales sharply and keeps his face neutral. Taichi sighs knowingly and leans easily on his broom. “You are the Ghost to all Tsushima,” he says gently, “but in Omi Village you are Lord Sakai. The shogun can’t take away what your family has done for this place. 

“When the jitō returned, I…” Taichi looks at his feet. “I thought he killed you. Two samurai do not walk away from a duel. But you are here, and he is on his way to his castle, and that is a good thing.”

Thickly, Jin can only manage to say, “Thank you, Taichi.”

“Now, what can I do for you?” He continues sweeping, and his tone is light and conversational once again.

“I brought a horse from Jogaku when we took Fort Kaminodake,” Jin says, eager to return to business. “She’s temperamental, but strong. I think village life will serve her better than…”

“Phantom life,” Taichi finishes. Jin nods.”Yuriko’s horse has been lonely in the stables; I’m sure even a wild friend would do her good.”

Yuriko is another stab to the heart; he would have to pay his respects later. He swallows and says instead, “I’ll bring her down from my camp then.”

But Jin doesn’t move. This is his home, and he would not have much longer in it; how can he just drop off a horse and go to live in the woods for the rest of his life? Taichi’s sweeping slows, and he looks past Jin at the winter sun setting behind him. “I was about to start an early dinner,” he says slowly. “Why don’t you bring the horse in and join me? How long has it been since you had a hot meal?”

Jin has no answer. He laughs lightly and shakes his head. “Too long, Taichi. How could you tell?”

“You look like a used rag. And not just your clothes. Plus, you’re wounded! It would be a shame not to offer you hospitality.” He makes a shooing motion at his feudal lord. “Go on, young master. I’ll get the rice started.”

Jin brings the horse down, as well as his current mount, a dark steed named Kaze. He sees they are comfortable in the stables for the night. Taichi says the Jogaku horse has the look of a fighter, and when Jin tells him she once threw him for idling too long to check a map, he laughs. As they sit down for a thin but as-promised hot dinner, Taichi folds his hands in his lap.

“You know,” he says, “Yuriko’s flower-picking camp wasn’t her only special spot on this mountain.”

“Oh?”

“There was an old abandoned hut on the coastal road to the monastery, a short path by the last set of steps that leads behind the mountain. ‘Follow the white trees,’ she used to say. Stored tools there in the winter.”

“You don’t say,” Jin remarks, twirling his chopsticks idly. “And said place would be well-hidden?”

“Nestled between a mountain and a monastery? Certainly.”

Jin is under no impression that Taichi brought the hut up by coincidence. He files the information away for later, and the conversation turns to lighter things. They eat dinner, drink a bit too much of Kenji’s sake, and trade stupid stories deep into the night. Jin crawls into a bedroll on the second floor and sleeps a dreamless sleep for the first time in a long time.

* * *

Jin wakes the next morning with an aching head and the unsettling feeling that he is forgetting something. Taichi is cordial as ever when Jin descends to face the day.

“I’m going to see about a hut,” he tells the groundskeeper.

“The tools will be there,” Taichi says easily. “You can stay here if the shelter is poor.”

There are Mongols remaining on Tsushima, bandits loose on the highways, straw hats prowling Toyotama, the shogun’s headhunters in every stronghold. Jin sets his jaw and is about to insist he cannot stay, but Taichi touches a hand to his arm. “You need rest, too, young master,” he says. “Even if _rest_ for you involves intense physical labor.”

Taichi had not been present most of his childhood like Yuriko, but he had seen enough of Jin’s restless and persistent nature to know how destructive it could be. His heart bleeds for all he had lost, and perhaps a few days in Omi would let the wounds close. _Forgive me, friends_ , he thinks to all his companions still fighting across the island. _I’ll join the fight with you soon._

He mounts Kaze and sets off to follow the white trees. The wind seems to guide him there, pleasant and unseasonably warm against his back. 

The shelter is partially collapsed, but the roof has a great view of the mountain path leading to it. It is well-concealed, as promised, and though the roof needs repairs, the walls are still sturdy and the structure sound. Yes, this would serve him well. Jin does not need an estate — all he needs is a place to call home.

Every morning, he pampers all three horses and mucks out their stable before heading out. Every day, he fixes the roof of the shelter while Kaze grazes. Every evening, he returns to the village to chat with the blacksmith, the tailor, the hunter as Jin Sakai, not the Ghost. Every night, he drinks with Taichi and sleeps well, curled up in a home that was once his.

The morning after the shelter is deemed livable, he is woken early by the sound of a door slamming.

“Forgive me, my lords!” Taichi’s voice calls, loud and clear as a bell. It is nervous, laced with overly polite tones. “We are a bit on edge here in Omi Village, as you can imagine!”

Taichi never slams doors or shouts. Who is he talking to? Jin weasels his way up to a window to see him talking to two messengers, both wearing the shogun’s colors. _Shit_. He ducks below the window and listens, formulating a plan as Taichi exchanges pleasantries.

“We are here to inspect the estate for the new lords to arrive in spring,” a messenger says. “You are the old clan’s servant?”

“Yes, I served Clan Sakai for many long years. I must warn you—“ Taichi lowers his voice conspiratorially, and Jin strains to hear him. “The estate is haunted by a vengeful spirit, my lords. Not one to be trifled with, though I try my best!”

“Yes, we know,” one messenger says in a flat, disdained voice. “The Ghost. We fought with him at Castle Shimura. Young Jin has been here lately?”

“Oh, not that ghost. You haven’t heard?”

A pause, then, “Haven’t heard what?”

“The Ghost’s father, Kazumasa — he was murdered in this courtyard. Right on that stone where you stand!”

There is a gasp, then the unmistakable sound of someone jumping back. Jin has tortured memories of those very stones. But here, ducked beneath the window, he has to summon all his focus not to laugh out loud.

“You can take a look about, but every morning, there are strange breezes in the house, screens opened, sheets misplaced...it must be an omen! Every. Single. Morning!” He punctuates each word so obviously it _must_ be a message for him. Jin ties his hair sloppily out of his face as he scrambles into action.

He throws open all the screens and uses his tantō to shred the thin blanket he had been using. As the messengers and Taichi look around the bottom floor, Jin stuffs the shredded blanket into the panels of the window so they flutter in the breeze, then crawls out the tiny opening just as they begin to ascend the ladder.

He listens from the roof, crouched low on the tiles. There is an uncomfortable silence as the messengers look around, then “Well. We will tell the new lords about this. But the house has been kept in good order, I see.”

Taichi continues to babble about _ghosts_ and _Mongols_ and _threats unseen_ , and the messengers seem tired of his insistence by the time they mount their horses to leave.

Jin tries to remember if Taichi had been this clever when they were younger, but he supposes there was little opportunity for him to do so. He served Lord Kazumasa and Lord Shimura, after all — not men known for their sense of humor. Taichi had always been willing, earnest, a bit clumsy...but he was nothing if not loyal. When Jin silently descends, Taichi lets out a huff and leans dramatically on his broom.

“I’m glad you move so quickly, my lord. I don’t think we’ve scared them off though.”

“You still got them out of here much faster than I expected.”

“I usually don’t lie for just anyone, my lord,” he says tersely. “But…”

“You don't need to compromise your morals for me, Taichi,” Jin assures him quickly, guilt already hardening in his belly. _I do enough of that for all of us._

“But I am _quite_ the actor, no?” he finishes, with a lazy smile. Jin laughs in relief.

“You certainly are.”

They both regard each other for a moment. This can no longer safely be Jin’s home, now that the little lean-to can serve as long-term shelter, and the moment is bitter on Jin’s tongue. He claps Taichi on the shoulder.

“Thank you, friend. For everything.”

“It is my duty, Lord Sakai,” Taichi says with a bow. “Don’t be a stranger, now.”

“I am a Ghost. I think that’s all I _can_ be.”

“Not here,” the groundskeeper says firmly. “Not in Omi.”


	2. izuhara, kamiagata

On the roads north of Izuhara, Jin catches word of a sake seller with a piebald horse and a wry smile. His cart is full of spirits, supplies, and stories of ghosts and legend.

Jin is heading south, and Kenji is heading north; they cross paths on a coastal road. From a distance, Jin lifts a hand in greeting, and Kenji lifts his hat in return, beaming. They stop the horses in the middle of the road, knowing there will not be many travelers until the war is over. 

True to the rumors, Kenji has actual  _ supplies  _ in his cart. Food and medicine, lifted from the remnants of the fleet that had been sunk off the Izuhara coast, moving the supplies to Kamiagata at the behest of the Kushi Temple monks. As Kenji travels, he spreads word of the Ghost—all true stories, he insists, just as dramatic and unbelievable as the feats were to witness in person.

He laughs as he recalls smuggling a few refugees out of bandit-infested areas by hiding them in empty sake barrels, just as Jin and Yuna had done at Azamo Bay.  _ The Ghost’s tales are as useful as they are inspiring _ , Jin thinks dully. He supposes tales like this are better than the ones of his supposed army, gathering in the north.

The sun is high and their travels are long, so they do not linger. “Tell the others—Omi Village. Follow the white trees behind the mountain. That’s where they can find me,” Jin says.

“The white trees,” Kenji repeats. “Of course, Lord Sakai.”

He is about to set Kaze off in a trot, but pauses. “And...Kenji?”

“My lord?”

Jin holds his reins tightly; Kaze flicks his ears impatiently. “Thank you. For Castle Shimura. For your help at Izumi Port. And for spreading hope. Tsushima could use more people as cunning as you.”

Kenji’s grin almost makes Jin regret his words, but he pairs it with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Ah, the castle escape was mostly Yuna’s idea. But I won’t forget you said this! The Ghost himself, telling  _ me _ I spread hope. No one will believe it.”

Later that night, Jin and Kaze make camp in a forest clearing. Jin realizes Kenji slipped a few bottles of sake into his saddlebags—labeled, in a messy hand,  _ Kenji’s Best.  _ He shakes his head, leans against Kaze where they lie for the night, and watches the stars in the clear winter sky. The sake is as bright and sharp as the wind, and warms him to his bones. 

* * *

North of Komatsu Forge, Jin and Sensei Ishikawa scout supply lines through the forest. With every major port reclaimed, the Khan dead, and the fleet destroyed, the supplies for the remaining Mongol troops had to come from  _ somewhere. _ Ransacking rural villages could not feed the remnants of an army for this long, no matter how dwindling their numbers. The archer and his student lie in wait by a rumored passage, crouched behind a log in the shadows of a forest.

They sit in silence. It is much like sharing space with a cat, Jin realizes; Ishikawa is prideful and quiet, bristly when provoked, and slow to forgive. All lessons Ishikawa teaches are firsthand, dangerous or otherwise. His uncle always had advice to give him on hunts, corrections of his stance and mentality, even when he came into adulthood. They used to hunt in these very woods, thinning herds of boar who threatened the rice fields, tracking the beasts through billowing fields of tall grass. 

They would never hunt together again. Jin closes his eyes, lifts his face to the dappled sunlight, and draws a long, slow breath.

“Something on your mind, Sakai?”

Jin thinks about being upfront, but reconsiders. “It’s sentimental. You won’t like it.”

“You’re right,” he grunts. “We’re on a hunt. Keep it in your chest.”

A moment passes, then another. Jin hesitates, then asks his question anyway. “Sensei, you were exiled. How did you move on?”

He cracks open one eye just in time to catch Ishikawa’s scathing glance. “What did I just say, Sakai?”

“We’ll hear the caravan coming long before we spot it,” Jin says calmly. “I was curious. You heard about Clan Sakai.”

“I did.” Ishikawa’s tone is clipped, but after a beat, he adds, “I am sorry.”

“Now who’s sentimental?”

Ishikawa snorts, but shifts further into cover and sets his bow on the ground. He rests one hand on his quiver, and though he doesn’t look at Jin again, he can see his sensei stewing on the answer. 

“Something like that,” he says slowly, “never really leaves you. You find your own way to move forward, step by step, knowing there’s a path sealed off behind you. The shadows linger. I know who I am now, Sakai, and what I stand for. But losing where you belong is…” He sighs, and lets the sentence hang. “This is nothing new for the Ghost, I’m sure.”

“No,” Jin agrees.

Ishikawa does not look at him again, but he shifts some on his haunches. “We’re on a hunt,” he repeats, “and you’re dozing in the sunlight like a lazy pup. Stay alert. Check the fletching on your arrows.”

Jin cannot help but smile, and wordlessly, he sits up straighter and reaches for his quiver.  _ A Ghost and a demon sensei. A lazy, clanless pup and a prickly, exiled cat,  _ he thinks to himself, as he runs his hands over the feathered fletching in his quiver.  _ We are not so alone, Sensei. _

* * *

The Golden Temple still stands in Ariake, brilliant even under the thin layer of snow. The wounded and ill rest in the buildings, while other shelter in lean-tos throughout the courtyard. Following the defeat of Khotun Khan, Lady Adachi had arrived to lend her presence and spirit to those displaced by the invasion.

By a campfire, as dusk settles over the Golden Forest, Jin speaks privately with Masako.

“What will your uncle do now?” she asks.

“About the Ghost?”

“About Clan Shimura.” Masako folds her hands in her lap and keeps her eyes on the fire. “He has no heir, and the rest of Tsushima’s great clans are dead or gone. What will he do?”

She has always cut straight to the point, her will as sharp as the finest blade. Jin takes a moment putting himself back in the mindset of a young heir. Despite the war’s brevity, the memories feel a lifetime ago.

“I suggested he remarry,” Jin says, “when we—”

“Yes,” she interrupts quickly. “Thought at his age, I doubt he would.”

“Perhaps he will name a retainer his heir, just as the first Shimura jitō inherited Lord Kugewara’s power.”

“That makes sense. Did you know his retainers well?”

Jin shakes his head. “By the time I was old enough to become familiar with them, I was samurai.”

“And a Sakai samurai by your side is deadlier than any retainer in all Japan.”

Masako speaks softly, but the words sting. He stares at the fire, watching the embers flicker, and thinks after a life without the Ghost. Had he given up Yuna, surrounded by the rot of death and poisoned corpses and aghast samurai, would he be happier? The Ghost could have died that day, and Jin Shimura could have lived. Clan Sakai would merge fully with Clan Shimura, both their legacies preserved.

It would have come at a cost—Yuna, the trust of the people of Tsushima, and any sense of his own self remaining beneath his mask. His hand, where it rests on his knee, grips into a fist involuntarily. Masako reaches over and covers it with hers, and it startles him out of his own thoughts.

“Should I have killed him?” he whispers, as though speaking the words too loud will make them come true. “An honorable samurai would have killed him.”

“You didn’t kill me,” she says simply. She meets his eyes. They had dueled all that time ago in Kushi as burning Mongol arrows speckled the hilltop around them. He hadn’t even entertained the possibility, and they both know it. After a moment, she adds, “Killing your uncle wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“It would have proved something,” Jin bites out. He looks away, ashamed at his tone but unable to temper it. “He would not have to live knowing I betrayed him. He would have died a warrior.”

“Jin. You will torture yourself to death with the possibilities. He is not dead, but you are allowed to mourn him.” When he doesn’t reply, she continues softly, “You have lost so much from a young age. You help your people, and you bear your burdens well. But loss cuts deeper than any sword.”

“Masako…”

“Let yourself miss what is gone,” she insists. “Someone important to me taught me that, not so long ago.”

Masako looks at him oddly for a second, then quickly wraps her arm around his neck. Her affection had always been distant until now, and it takes Jin by surprise. He puts his arms around her, and though the embrace is brief, it is fierce.

A lifetime ago, Lady Masako Adachi was known for her kindness and strength. It still suits her, Jin thinks.

“Clans Sakai and Adachi will not be forgotten,” he says. “I’ll make sure of it.”

She says nothing, but the gleam in her eye almost dares to be hopeful. They sit in silence by the embers late into the night, and watch the whispering wind carry the last autumn leaves beyond the gates of the temple.

* * *

Jin’s journey north coincides with the throes of winter. He seeks out the growing army that gathers under the Ghost’s name.

It is safer to pass north through Fort Kaminodake. Takeshi’s hunters and thieves wave as he rides through, uninterrupted, and Jin braces himself for the worst of Tsushima’s winter. He puts his mask up over a scarf wrapped tight over his nose and mouth, and rides on his black steed in his black garb through the still-smoldering ruins of Kamiagata like an omen. There are few forests to hide in, few standing shelters to hide his arrival. Word spreads quickly through the survivor camps — the Ghost is back in the north, fury in his dark eyes and vengeance in his steaming breath.

While Jogaku Temple likely has the answers Jin seeks, he heads to Cedar Temple first.

Omi Monastery was a place of tranquility, the Golden Temple a place of refuge, and Kushi Temple a place of recovery. Cedar Temple, however, is a place of action. Monks spar in designated training areas even as the snow falls around them, and no one but the huddled refugees even seems to note the Ghost’s arrival. Jin dismounts and leaves his horse by the gate. He makes it all the way to the main hall before Norio finds him, and greets him with a bow and a less-retrained, brotherly hug.

“You’ve been busy,” Jin says fondly, with a look around the busy temple grounds.

“So have you!”

“And there is still work to be done,” Jin says, his hand on the weight of his katana even as they speak. “But it is good to see Cedar Temple so lively.”

“Yes, many of the monks from Kushi Temple wanted to learn to use a naginata after we reclaimed the sanctuary. Would you like to train with us? I am sure the men would feel emboldened learning from the Ghost.” There is a flash of something dark in Norio’s kind eyes. Jin can still smell the burning of the Mongol camp that Norio had destroyed on his own, in the dead of that cold autumn night after Enjo’s death. Norio’s words from their last encounter still ring in his ears.  _ I did what the Ghost would do, _ he had said with a calm, seething fury.  _ I can’t go back to what I was, after this. _

The darkness is still there in his eyes as he holds Jin’s gaze.

Jin shifts on his feet and grips his katana tighter. “Norio. You’ve heard rumors of the Ghost’s army?”

“Yes. I thought them odd, given what…” He swallows. “Given what happened. With your uncle.”

Jin shakes his head. “You’re right, it’s not my doing. I want no part in these people going to get themselves killed on Mongol territory. So if anyone sees me training, and more rumors spread…”

He lets Norio draw his own conclusions. The warrior monk nods, his mouth set in a fine line. “I understand.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You fight enough; I should have known better than to ask,” he says. Norio tilts his head at Jin, then adds, “Perhaps we can do something more peaceful.”

Jin’s wounds from his duel had not yet healed, and the cold weather, his constant riding, and assorted scrapes with Mongol patrols had kept his recovery slow. He will take peace where he can get it. “Lead the way,” he says.

They sweep the pathways and clear snow from the awnings. When the sun is high, they ride to a cliffside cemetery that had been desecrated in the nearby fighting and restore the monuments, say prayers and farewells, and lay flowers on the graves. As the sun sets, they slow in their work. Norio leans back on his haunches and looks to the overcast sky.

“It feels,” he says slowly, “like I’m pretending.”

Jin stills. There is a long silence before Norio continues his thought.

“Some of the people at Cedar Temple...they saw what I did that night.” Norio folds his hands in his lap and closes his eyes to the wind. “I am moving forward, like you said. And you were right. But I sometimes act like nothing has changed, like Enjo never died. What is forgetting, and what is forgiving?”

At length, Jin replies, “I am trying to figure that out, as well. But you have not given up, Norio. And you have not forgotten. That is all we can do these days.”

“It is harder than it sounds,” he sighs.

“It is. But you keep hope in the temple. You are Norio, warrior monk of Cedar Temple, shield of Tsushima, and avenger of brothers.”

“And a friend to ghosts,” Norio adds with a thin smile. Jin claps him on the shoulder.

They spend a moment watching the sunset, then walk the horses back to the temple, reins in hand. The breeze is gentle and clouds still for their journey.

* * *

The Endless Forest is no less unsettling under the cover of snow.

It falls thick, but it is too warm to fully blanket the scorched earth. Jin slows Kaze to a trot as they reach the road south of Kin Sanctuary, where a grave marked by a sturdy branch rests. He dismounts, rests a hand between Kaze’s ears to tell him to stay put, and kneels before the grave.

Nobu had ridden with him from Komoda Town all over Tsushima. He was a trustworthy beast, dappled like clouds, and friendly as a dog. He was surefooted like no horse Jin had ever ridden, and never balked even while fording rivers or traveling on narrow mountain roads. They had rested together, fought together, pushed themselves to the limits of their strength together.

It is only fitting that, hours after their escape, they had collapsed together somewhere far from Castle Shimura, somewhere far from Kin Sanctuary. They were both exhausted beyond measure. Jin had sat murmuring gently to loyal Nobu as he breathed his last breaths, his hand on his steed’s neck and fading pulse.

Drained, mindlessly angry, and overwhelmed with grief, Jin had buried his horse with nothing but rocks, the loose and sooty earth, and his own two hands.  _ You can rest, _ he had thought,  _ just like I promised. I’m sorry. We should have been anywhere else. I should have been kinder. I’m sorry. _

“You can rest now,” he says aloud, into the winter hush. Jin spends a long moment reflecting on what was lost, then returns to his living, breathing mount.

Kaze is a good horse, dark as night with keen eyes. He is gentle and eager to please, and rides quietly, unlike any samurai horse Jin had ever met. He loves Kaze, but Nobu’s sacrifice is written on his heart.

Jin rests his head against Kaze’s for just a moment before mounting. He returns south by the roads along Castle Shimura he had avoided for so long.


	3. tradition's end

Jin returns to his shack with every intention of sleeping through the incoming storm.

The journey from Kamiagata had been long, interrupted only by Jin stopping to help survivor camps and strike down any Mongol patrols along the way. They had cut through the jito’s foothills rather than risk a confrontation with Shimura’s samurai; both rider and mount are relieved when they finally slow to a trot in the flatter terrain of Omi Village.

The shack is still standing, and all of Jin’s possessions within are untouched. He untacks Kaze, brushes him down, and drapes a fur over his back to keep him warm. Before he turns in, he squints up at the sky. The low, dark clouds heralding the storm are close; snowfall would come by nightfall.  Jin has just started unpacking his saddlebags when he hears the clop of hooves down the lane. He glances over his shoulder — Kaze is just visible from the window, his head lifted and ears perked forward.

_ There is never time to rest, _ Jin thinks dully. He rests his hand on the hilt of his katana and watches tensely for his visitor.

But the horse that appears is a welcome sight, the rider even more so. Yuna dismounts just as she crosses the line of trees, and Jin breathes a sigh of relief. He steps back out to greet her. 

Yuna appraises the hut with her hands on her hips, her keen eye taking in the ramshackle roof, the banners just visible through the half-covered windows. “I like your new home,” she says, by way of greeting. “It suits you.”

Jin had grown up in a castle, surrounded by tall pagodas and sturdy walls — but he spent almost all of his youth trying to escape, climbing fences and crawling onto roofs. How often had he and Ryuzo tried to sail off Tsushima, or sneak out of Castle Shimura in disguises? He never did well within high walls, and finds himself nodding. 

“It will have to do, now that Clan Sakai is gone,” he says. His eye wanders down the path Yuna had just ridden up. “...and I’ve been branded a traitor.”

Yuna stiffens, but makes no other move. “I heard about your uncle. Will he come for us?”

“I don’t think so. But sooner or later, someone will.”

“What matters is you’re  _ alive _ ,” she insists, a familiar edge of worry in her voice. “You defeated Khotun Khan and left the Mongols without a leader. The mainland is safe.”

“But our home isn’t. The khan’s forces are stuck here, desperate to conquer the island,” Jin says flatly. It is nothing Yuna doesn’t know. Her hand rests on the sword at her hip, and she nods grimly.

“Then we’d better keep fighting,” she says. “Just don’t forget, up here on your mountain...Tsushima needs you.”

Every moment of his life is shaped by his duty to his island. Wounds from his duel with Shimura still ache in the cold, radiating a dull heat from his ribcage. “I’ll never forget that,” he murmurs.

“Good.” She shifts on her feet, then adds after a beat, “We’ll cover more ground if we split up.”

“Hit the Mongols from all sides,” he agrees. “We’ll take back our home.”

“Goodbye, Jin. Take care of yourself.”

“I will. You too, Yuna. But…”

“But?” She already has her hands braced on her horse’s flank to mount, but pauses with an eyebrow raised.

“But the snow will start soon,” he says, gesturing at the storm clouds rapidly rolling towards them. “Sit with me for one more night. Like in Yarikawa, and Jogaku.”

Yuna thinks for a moment. “Alright,” she agrees, “but you’re providing the sake this time around.”

They lead her horse to the provisional lean-to where Kaze is resting. Jin dips into the shelter to retrieve Kenji’s sake, and when he returns, Yuna is looking thoughtfully at the clouds. “When we were young, Taka would wake me up late in the night to watch the snowfall,” she says slowly. She looks to Jin and folds her arms over her chest. “It was always magical to him, even if it was cold. I wonder if he…”

She stops herself. Jin hands her a bottle of sake. “We can watch out here before it gets too bad,” he suggests. “Half the building collapsed. The rubble makes a good ramp up to the roof.”

Jin stands on the collapsed as proof, and offers a hand to help her up. She ignores it, but climbs up deftly after him. “On the roof, Lord Sakai? Like a thief?”

“Like a ghost,” he says evenly, and when she meets his eye, they both grin.

The roof is not comfortable, but they sit anyway, his katana and her bow just within reach. For a long while, they watch the storm grow closer. The night before they attacked Izumi Port, the weather had been much the same—silence and the crushing stillness of apprehension, accompanied only by the pull of the wind. The snow starts thin, mist-like. Jin draws a deep breath of winter air, lets it warm in his chest, then slowly releases it. 

“What will you do when the island is free?” he asks.

Yuna shakes her head. She fiddles with a charm on the end of her bow. “I don’t know. Maybe Kenji needs a hand. He can finally tell me where he finds all this stuff,” she says shortly, gesturing to the sake. “You?”

“I don’t know,” Jin answers. It is the honest truth, and one he hadn’t let himself consider with the war still on Tsushima. “I thought...before we stormed Castle Shimura, before I was the Ghost...if we killed the khan, everything would reset. Go back to what it was before Komoda. It was a foolish thought.”

“It was hopeful.” She pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them. The gesture is defensive, or perhaps a reaction to the cold. The snow falls thicker as she continues more quietly, “Hope drives people like nothing else. We were so close to getting to the mainland, Taka and I. The plan was to find a village in the country that needed a blacksmith and finally settle down in peace.”

Jin sees death whenever he closes his eyes—it had been with him since his mother died and never let him go since. But Taka’s death still seizes his heart, anger and guilt and grief twisting together. “You deserved that peace,” he says hoarsely. “You still do.”

Yuna remains silent, but she leans against him, her arm warm against his. Jin puts an arm around her shoulders, slowly and tentatively, and she doesn’t pull away. After a moment, she says, “My offer, from Jogaku? To sail to a tiny island and leave this all behind?”

“I remember.”

“Still on the table.”

Jin snorts in spite of himself. “After all we’ve given Tsushima…”

“I know,” she interrupts softly. “But it was worth another try.”

“I appreciate it, Yuna.” 

_ And you,  _ he adds to himself. Yuna had come from an entirely different life, had fought for entirely different reasons at first—but she is faithful and fierce and a companion like no other. There are rumors the Ghost’s wraithlike armor lets him split himself in two, so he can strike from the front and rain down arrows from behind. But beneath Taka’s clever armor is Jin, and in the shadows behind Jin is Yuna and her hawkeye aim. Yes, he would miss fighting with her, even if they are splitting up for their own safety.

Yuna reaches out to let a snowflake settle on her finger, then watches it melt away. 

“Tell me about him,” Jin says suddenly. At her questioning look, he adds, “Taka. I knew him only a while. It is a shame I didn’t know him longer.”

Yuna scrutinizes him for a moment before turning decidedly back to the snow. “We should head inside,” she says, already standing. “It will be a cold night…and a long talk, I think.”

The roof is slippery with the snowmelt, and this time, when Jin offers his hand to help Yuna down, she takes it.

They dry off by the clay stove, huddled under furs even while sheltered from the wind. Snow blankets the grove outside as they slip, story by story, into the past. Yuna talks of her past with Taka, small near-forgotten moments of their lives as siblings, as runaways, as survivors. Talk turns to all the people they had lost, all the deaths Jin had mourned privately—his parents, the friends who had ridden with him at Komoda Beach, Yuriko, Ryuzo, Nobu, and even Lord Shimura, if just for a moment.

They drink plenty of Kenji’s fine sake, and drift off to sleep by the warmth of the fire.

Jin rises before Yuna to find that the storm has passed. He leans against the wall and blinks against the morning light, blinding off the snow. Next to him on the wall is his ancestral katana, with charms from Yuriko and Inari’s messengers wrapped around the hilt. Before him, Yuna sleeps deeply, piles of warm furs and blankets rising and falling with the slow cadence of her breath.

For a moment, there is peace. Jin breathes in deeply and exhales a long, slow cloud of steam. He lets Yuna sleep and stands to face the morning.

Though he still aches from the drinking, Jin tacks up Yuna’s horse and brings him around front. It is late morning when Yuna steps out of the hut, bundled in her cloak, bow unstrung and slung across her back. She squints at him past the brightness of the snow and raises an eyebrow. Jin offers her the reins.

“Travel safe,” he says.

“You too,” she says.

Yuna mounts, and rides off with a final look over her shoulder. She trots out of Jin’s hidden clearing, the wind at her back, flanked by the white trees crested with snow.


End file.
